If only there were time to write all the things that wander through my head. If there were time, I would tell you how much I loved reading Katrina Kenison's book, Magical Journey. I would tell you that her words had reached into the questing and questioning corners of my soul and handed me answers like a soft blanket I could drape around my shoulders.
If there were time, I would tell you how I laughed and cried over Richard Russo's memoir, Elsewhere. I would tell you that I felt such empathy for this man in his enmeshed relationship with a mother pursued by a number of demons, and that reading about this portion of his life made me love his books even more, something I had not thought possible.
If there were time, I would tell you how the words of a young minister on Sunday helped me think about Christian service in a new way, showed me that sharing faith is not always about the grand gesture, the huge contribution, that it can be as simple as bearing witness, about not forgetting.
But alas, there is no time to tell you these things, for life in the real world calls. In a few minutes I will dress in bright colors and slip myself into the gray and fog-covered world outside my door.